


"Just?"

by Be_Right_Back



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: (actually more on the side of), (for now) - Freeform, (let's make these into real tags), Acute Moodiness Overload, And Cris, Canon Compliant, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Going on the assumption that the EMH and the ENH are different holograms, Heavy Angst, Hurt Cris, Hurt Cristóbal Rios, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, The Holograms save the day, Tragic Sense of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Right_Back/pseuds/Be_Right_Back
Summary: Captain Cristóbal Rios doesn't rely on people these days. It's not an issue, except when it is. (Or, Cris often gets himself out of commission and the Emergency Holograms always fulfil their programming to the letter. He isn't particularly grateful.)(inspired by this tumblr post: https://amockblog.tumblr.com/post/190708176515/so-rios-ship-has-emergency-holograms-modelled)
Relationships: Cristóbal Rios & EMH (Star Trek: Picard), Cristóbal Rios & ENH (Star Trek: Picard), EMH (Star Trek: Picard) & ENH (Star Trek: Picard)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 88





	"Just?"

**Author's Note:**

> So this is it, the second fanfic on this website to feature our handsome pilot. I should have hurried up lol. Anyway, I'm sure this will end up being AU next thursday. Idc. Enjoy some delightful holographic cinnamon rolls saving the day, with a not so healthy dose of whump.

"Holy madre de heck—" Cris grits out when his ship lurches to the side.

Some bastard has just put a dent on his _Sirena_. Oh, he's going to get that motherfucker alright.

(A very, very long time ago, Captain Cristóbal Rios used to be a polite man – at least on deck. He would only curse in the privacy of his own head – perfect, _perfect_ XO. He's so alone now that whether he thinks or talks makes no difference at all – fucking empty ship.)

Sure, it's probably a bit his fault for using that shortcut through Sector XT-321. He knew there were some touchy people in that System— what was it? Trwyn 4? —and he decided not to give a damn, which is probably why he's getting shot at right now. Doesn't matter. Nobody scratches his _Sirena_. Mermaids are hard enough to come by. 

Another shot rocks the ship, and Cris is almost thrown off his seat and onto the console below. Shit. His holographic controls flicker – _oh no no no no, no, don't do that you bastardos –_ and he has to fight an angry growl. It's been a while since anything managed to get a rise out of him like that. 

(No time for alcohol or cigars right now, and definitely no time for literature. Damn.)

 _"You're the one not so legally smuggling stuff through this private system,"_ a nagging voice at the back of his head reminds him. He knows how to ignore voices. He's been doing it for ten years now.

"Shut up," he tells the voice, the universe, himself. "I'm concentrating."

_"Just saying. Pick activities a bit less dodgy if you want to stop dodging danger."_

He groans.

"That's a terrible one."

And the ship lurches again, and his head collides with the seat headrest, _hard._ Really, really, really _hard._ Pain explodes behind his eyes. And stars too, so many of them, so brilliant, so bright – so painful, so goddamn painful, nauseating. His hand flies up and tangles into his own unruly hair, prodding. It comes back sticky, warm and wet. Cris blinks. Oh, right, blood. He's used to blood. It seems like he's always bleeding, nowadays, always battered or bruised in some way. The controls go dark – bad, bad, really bad – and the final lurch has him crashing to the ground with all the elegance of a Klingon in a fistfight. 

He tries to get up – tries to move without throwing up – but he _can't_ _,_ and suddenly there's blood trailing down his forehead and getting into his eyes. Trembling fingers wipe it away, because it is. Not. The. Time. 

It doesn't help. Everything around him blurs and shifts out of focus, and the red haze won't go away. He blinks furiously to dispel it. 

_"Doesn't work that way, Rios,"_ a voice chides behind him.

He looks over his shoulder, too fast. _Something_ flashes before his eyes, a sight that he can't bear to acknowledge. 

_It's not real, it's_ not _real,_ he tries to tell himself. _There's no blood on that bulkhead, no brains—_

But when he looks at his hand again, it's covered in dark, dark red and grey mush that's too horrifying to identify. Cristóbal throws up.

The ships rocks one last time _—_

It _hurts—_

And then, he passes out.

* * *

"Elevated heartbeat, arrhythmia, blood loss, visible signs of distress," the Sirena's Emergency Medical Hologram lists as he automatically activates. It's part of his protocol, to give justifications every time he powers up. Captain Rios doesn't like holograms activating for no reason. "Oh dear," he frets softly under his simulated breath, because it's hardly for no reason this time, "oh dear."

He kneels in front of Captain Rios, wincing as he takes in the large puddle of blood (and vomit) on the ground. 

"Activate ENH," the EMH commands, gasping a little bit because he can recognize what's in front of him as scary and he doesn't like scary. "Medkit," he adds.

"Hello there!" ENH cheerfully announces as he flickers into existence. "So, my presence is finally required? It's my pleasure to— _Oh_." 

"The situation is under control," EMH explains dutifully and out loud, since Captain Rios doesn't like when the holograms communicate via the ship's computers. EMH takes in the readings of the medical tricorder and frowns, as they're not very good. "Please attend to the ship," he continues.

Nobody is shooting at them anymore, probably because La Sirena has powered down. It in turn means that their attackers will probably try to board it soon. They really have to get out of here. 

"I'm not a pilot," ENH points out, still analysing the state of their Captain as EMH pulls out hyposprays. "I'm an Emergency Navigational Hologram. I can't make decisions without his authorization." 

Captain Rios is turning under EMH's projected hands. He's still unconscious and very pale, and completely silent. He never voices pain when he can help it, their Captain. Never. He doesn't flinch in pain either, and he doesn't start. Right now, he's just slowly moving his head trying to get away from the unwanted physical contact. It's never nice to watch. 

"You say that every time," EMH replies as he pulls the dermal regenerator out of the medkit. "The Captain can't issue orders right now. Circumvent your protocol."

"Shouldn't we... I don't know... activate others?" ENH asks as he displaces the projected matter constituting his visible body towards the console. 

EMH winces. It doesn't serve any purpose, since it's just the two of them, but it's a habit he's managed to acquire.

"Captain Rios barely tolerates us on a good day," he says quietly. "He would be very unhappy to see anyone else."

ENH pulls a face. A sad, disappointed, Sad face. 

"I know. Do we transport him to his quarters?" He asks softly, his funny Irish accent more pronounced than usual. 

EMH nods, and both he and the Captain dissolve away, leaving ENH alone. 

"Mister, you have the conn," he whispers to himself, pushing the fear and worry and sadness far away.

EMH isn't far to him, hovering just there at the limits of his own programming. He'll know immediately if something bad happens. In the meantime, he has the whole Sirena all for himself. It's too bad the Captain is always so moody – so sad, really. If he would only be nicer, ENH is willing to bet they could have a lot of fun playing with the holographic displays. He fiddles with the computer and materializes a phantom crew around himself – just hollow subroutines with no proper encoding and some non distinctive uniforms plastered on – and he dares to imagine. 

(They're not Starfleet, of course – his Captain hates Starfleet.)

How nice would it be, ENH wonders, to have an actual crew?

* * *

When Cris awakens, still very tired and definitely cranky, he has the mother of all headaches. He vaguely remembers danger, but the memory is blurry and elusive.

 _Assess the situation,_ his instincts tell him. 

_One, you're not dead._

_Two, there's a bed under you._

_Three..._

"Hello, sir. Wonderful to see you awake," a British voice chirps somewhat hesitantly, and he bites back an exasperated groan. A pained one too, because his head feels like it's about to explode.

"Get lost," he grumbles.

"Sir, you have a concussion," the EMH protests. "I must monitor—"

"Shut up," Cris cuts him off. He doesn't deactivate the damn thing, because that's too many syllables.

"Yes sir," the EMH mumbles, and he makes a small sound to indicate he has flickered away.

Cris doesn't care to know if he's just hidden or actually powered off. He just wants to go back to sleep.

(Except he can't, because he can still smell blood and there's bright red flashing behind his eyelids, and his Captain is there, dead, dead, dead. And Cris can't look away and can't do anything and can't go back in time to stop this, can't do anything to help, can't, can't, can't. Oh God, why can't he just rest?)

"That wasn't very nice," somebody comments, cutting right through the haze of panic and pain of Cristóbal's mind.

It takes him a moment to realize that the voice isn't in his head. He opens his eyes with some effort, since the light is so fucking bright and hurts so damn much, and he throws a half-lidded glare at the Emergency Navigational Hologram. Good thing the bunch of them have different accents. He'd have been unable to recognize the ENH by his clothes, seeing how his vision is swimming right now. 

"Why are _you_ here?" Cris growls. 

"Well, I am an emergency hologram. If you recall, we had a bit of an emergency on our hands. I saved the day, by the way, and our dear Medical Hologram saved _you._ You're very welcome. Do you want my report?" The ENH babbles enthusiastically, like he always does.

He's like some sort of annoying over-eager puppy. It's insufferable.

"No," Cris snaps, and he lets his head fall back onto the pillow and tries to breathe around the throbbing pain.

"Don't you want a painkiller, Captain?" The ENH inquires. "I'm sure our CMO would be delighted to get one for you."

"I want you to stop talking," Cris mumbles. He _doesn't_ want a painkiller. "And the EMH isn't a CMO."

"There you go again with the ingratitude," the ENH tuts. "After we just went out of our way to save your life. Must you always be like that?" 

Cristóbal turns onto his back and stares at the blurry ceiling, ignoring how the back of his head screams in protest. Pain is okay. He can deal with pain. 

"Like what?" He asks, just to fuel the argument. He needs something to yell about. 

"Harsh and bitter?" The ENH says. "You always dismiss us and act like we don't matter, when we're the only company you have. It wouldn't kill you to crack a smile or nod in thanks once in a while. And you know how the EMH gets. I think he's really upset right now, because you keep being so mean."

Cristóbal could tune him out. He doesn't, not just yet.

"You're just holograms," he says in aggravation. "You don't get upset, I don't have to be nice to you, and you _don't_ matter." 

"Now you know that's unfair," the ENH says indignantly. "And you should take it back, Mr. Edgelord." 

"It's Captain Rios to you," Cris snaps.

He closes his eyes as the throbbing intensifies. 

(Red flashes, and screams, and blood.)

He opens them again. 

The ENH is still standing next to the bed, arms crossed, looking far more concerned and caring than any hologram has any right to be.

"Captain Rios," he tries, "you know we only want to help."

That does it.

"Deactivate ENH," Cris commands. "Deactivate EMH," he adds just in case.

He curls up into a loose ball and tries to rest with his eyes open. It doesn't do him much good, between the light that he can't bring himself to dim and his own anguished thoughts. The room feels empty without the hologram. He wonders at how pathetic that statement is.

* * *

Both holograms reactivate once he's asleep, turning off the light and watching him toss and turn with matching worried expressions. 

Then they flicker off, afraid that their own glow might wake him up.

 _"He's having nightmares,"_ EMH communicates, sending various images with the words to better get his feelings across. 

ENH sends the deconstructed equivalent of a sigh. 

_"He won't talk about them,"_ he says, pouring as much frustration into the message as he possibly can. 

_"And he won't accept any kind of relief either,"_ EMH transmits haltingly, infusing the words with regret. _"The last time I sedated him after an injury, he threatened to scrap my programming and replace me with a mute faceless blob."_

 _"Maybe unconsciousness doesn't make the nightmares go away,"_ ENH surmises. _"Maybe it just locks him in with them."_

_"Maybe,"_ EMH murmurs. _"I just wish I knew what to do. I'm programmed to make him better, you know?"_

ENH isn't, but he still gets it. It hurts, it pulls at their code and sends ripples of _emotion_ through their programming. It's hard to really grasp, harder to accept, but they _feel_ deeply about their Captain, and failing him like that day after day is hard to bear. 

_"He needs a friend, I think. Of course, a pet would help too. Just... Just someone that isn't him."_

_"We aren't enough,"_ EMH agrees dejectedly. 

ENH sends the image of himself nodding, in a flash.

 _"We're just emergency holograms,"_ he sends. 

_"Just?"_ EMH questions with an accompanying suggested frown. _"I meant that he doesn't like himself, not that there's something wrong with us."_

ENH doesn't reply.

 _"We're always saving him,"_ EMH insists. _"We're always fulfilling our programming! It's not our fault we're not human."_

 _"You're the one who said that we aren't enough,"_ ENH points out sadly. 

_"Well, we would be if he wasn't so sour,"_ EMH argues hotly. He powers off with a huff, lingering strings of half-formulated thoughts informing ENH that he's just terribly disappointed, as always.

ENH stays and watches over their Captain for a while longer, then he powers off as well. Whatever Cristóbal Rios needs, it's far beyond what they can provide. 

Aren't they just two emergency holograms? 

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, EMH and ENH are absolutely dorks, and terribly cute ones at that. I love them. This was supposed to be action-packed, but it ended but being about their feelings instead. Idk how it happened, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Secondly, here's a piece of garbage analysis. Based on The End is the Beginning (Picard 1x03), Cris is terribly lonely, scarred, and either thinks he deserves to suffer (qsdfgh that was one huge piece of tritanium) or uses pain as his anchor(*). He only has himself (to the point that his holograms are himself) and is so deep in self-loathing that he is annoyed by his own presence, and he is *content* to be annoyed by his own presence. He could change the holograms to look like anybody else if he dislikes them so much, but he doesn't. How messed up is that? 
> 
> So yeah I can't wait for this (very) hot mess of a man to confide in somebody and find some healing and rest. In the meantime, I'll just be over here whumping him. (He's Aramis in space. Whady'all expect from the fandom?)
> 
> (*See "The Tragic Sense of Life" page 140, that he's reading when the ENH tries to cheer him up.  
> The exact passage visible onscreen is: 
> 
> "Suffering is the path of consciousness, and by it living beings arrive at the possession of self-consciousness. For to possess consciousness of oneself, to possess personality, is to know oneself and to feel oneself distinct from other beings, and this feeling of distinction is only reached through an act of collision, through suffering more or less severe, through the sense of one's own limits. Consciousness of oneself is simply consciousness of one's own limitation. I feel myself when I feel that I am not others; to know and to feel the extent of my being is to know at what point I cease to be, the point beyond which I no longer am.  
> And how do we know that we exist if we do not suffer, little or much? How can we turn upon ourselves, acquire reflective consciousness, save by suffering? When we enjoy ourselves we forget ourselves, forget that we exist; we pass over into another, an alien being, we alienate ourselves. And we become centred in ourselves again, we return to ourselves, only by suffering."
> 
> Like... Wow. Poor babe. Idk what kind of space Savoy he went through but it's terrible and I can't wait to learn about it. You bet your butt I'm writing about somebody - very possibly Ultimate Dadmiral Picard - calming him down after a nightmare as soon as we learn what happened to the Ibn Majid. Cris can't be alone forever.)


End file.
